


It Must Be

by moosesal



Category: Everwood, Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-24
Updated: 2007-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:04:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moosesal/pseuds/moosesal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for silvertedy at her request. She gave me the pairing back in the fall and I thought about it for a while and finally got an idea. Started writing in November. Got about two-thirds of this down and then was stuck. I just couldn’t figure out how to turn to the ending. Inspiration hit a few days ago while walking the dog.</p><p>Thanks to brandil for the quick beta.</p><p>If you don’t know <i>Everwood</i> all you need to know to read this is that Ephram plays the piano.</p>
    </blockquote>





	It Must Be

**Author's Note:**

> Written for silvertedy at her request. She gave me the pairing back in the fall and I thought about it for a while and finally got an idea. Started writing in November. Got about two-thirds of this down and then was stuck. I just couldn’t figure out how to turn to the ending. Inspiration hit a few days ago while walking the dog.
> 
> Thanks to brandil for the quick beta.
> 
> If you don’t know _Everwood_ all you need to know to read this is that Ephram plays the piano.

  
  
It must be love. What else would get you to willingly go to an art show? As Veronica drags you around the photo exhibit, you smile and nod like you figure you should. It’s worth it if it gets you laid later.

As you wander through, you find yourself paying more attention to the music -- some complex jazz piece that goes well with the exhibit; the music, in fact, is far better than the photographs. When you turn a corner and see that the pianist looks to be the same age as you, you’re even more impressed.

If you’re honest about it, you know you’re expecting some wrinkled old black man. A white kid of maybe 20, if that, in deep concentration over the keys, is a definite surprise. You drop a couple bills in the tip jar next to an empty music stand and smile.

The guy doesn’t even notice you; while you can’t say why it bothers you, it does.

* * *

It must be fate. Why else would you notice -- for the first time since living there -- that there’s a piano in the Neptune Grand's bar? You’re on your way to the elevators just a few weeks after the art show when you hear a familiar melody. You’re not quite sure if it’s the same song from a few weeks earlier, but it’s definitely the same style, the same feel. When you slide into the bar and glance to the left you see that it is, indeed, the same guy; you reflexively stand taller, shoulders back, sly grin on your face and glint in your eye. Not that he’s looking at anything other than his fingers and the keys beneath them.

You drop onto a stool at the bar and order a Jack & Coke. At the bartender's raised eyebrow you change it to a Coke on the rocks. The bartender -- Sarah -- winks and says, "Coming right up, Mr. Echolls." That she knows your name is no surprise, but she’s not who you’re here to see.

You sip your Coke and watch the young man playing -- totally engrossed in his music, never glancing up or paying any attention to his audience. When you finish your drink, you slip from your barstool and walk over to the piano.

This time when you drop a tip in his jar he says “thanks,” but he still doesn’t look up at you.

You smile anyway. Maybe he’s not so oblivious after all.

* * *

It must be some weird, fucking coincidence. Or a matter of stalking. What else would result in you walking into Starbucks the next morning and running into that piano guy? Literally running into him. Just as you’re taking a sip of your cappuccino.

You wipe your thumb across the corner of your mouth where hot coffee splashed and bite back a nasty comment when you realize who’s apologizing so profusely. "It's okay," you find yourself saying. "Accidents happen." A little voice in your head that you recognize as Veronica asks what the hell happened to the real Logan Echolls. You ignore her.

"So sorry," the guy says. "Can I buy you another coffee? Pay for your cleaning bill?" He motions to your jacket which is covered with coffee and probably ruined.

"It's cool. No worries."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

The guy nods at you and you just sort of stare at each other awkwardly until another customer pushes past, muttering "excuse me" in an obviously annoyed voice.

The next thing you know you’ve been chatting for two hours and you’ve missed class. You’ve learned that his name is Ephram, he’s from New York (and Colorado), he has a sister, his mom’s dead, he’s traveling and supporting himself with gigs all over the country. He’s leaving Neptune tomorrow.

* * *

You don’t know what it is, but you’re drawn to him. Why else would you spend the evening in the bar again, listening and watching him play? During his break, you go over to the piano and lean over the top, smiling and chatting. When he starts playing again, you move back a few steps, staying where you can see his hands, watch his fingers work magic on the keyboard. You’re mesmerized and slightly embarrassed.

But you don’t really care. After his set, you sit down on the piano bench, back to the keys so you’re half facing each other. Your eyes never leave his as you talk about everything and nothing.

When Sarah says she’s got to close up, you invite Ephram upstairs. It’s awkward and weird and you’re not even sure what you’re asking of him. You’re disappointed and yet relieved when he declines. He’s leaving in the morning, after all, for some gig up the coast.

You exchange info and embrace in one of those stupid man-hugs -- half-embrace, half-clap on the back. You stand at the elevators as he walks away and you grin when he glances over his shoulder and waves to you.

The next day you have a piano delivered to your suite. In the coming weeks, you find yourself sliding your fingers over the keys, not quite hard enough to make music. You imagine the cool ivory is warm from his touch. You turn your back to them as you sit on the bench and stare out your balcony doors at the empty sky. How can you miss someone you barely know?

* * *

It must be your overactive imagination. What else could it be, when two months later you step off the elevator and hear piano music coming from your suite? But you’re not crazy. When you open the door you see Ephram at the piano. He looks up and smiles, says “Dick let me in.”

You nod and move to the piano -- to him -- while he keeps playing. Your own fingers slip down to the lowest keys, then slide closer to his. You’re watching your own hands, afraid to look at Ephram, afraid to find him looking back. Then you let your fingers graze the back of his hand and the playing stops. Your eyes meet and you manage to choke out a, “Hey.”

“Hey.” He smiles at you and shifts on the bench, pulling you down beside him. As you lean in for a kiss, you can still hear the music in your head. It reminds you of surfing.  



End file.
